Infinite Darkness of the Soul

The ever expanding works of Elizabeth Anne Easter. Poetry and musings of the stark reality of life.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Poem - Child Lost

Child ignored, never good enough
Beaten with words and fists,
    bloodied and still yearning
    for approval.
Quiet and shy, always fearing to breathe.
Insulted, taunted, degraded -
    You are too ugly, too fat stupid and useless.
Mother stands by -
    You are making him angry
    ...Do you want to be punished?

I never wanted it, never asked for it,
    never deserved it - not ever.
Midnight raids of my bedroom, watching
    my pets murdered, praying that you
    would stop - would die.
I was a child, unwanted by father,
    by step-fathers, by everyone.

Now an adult, broken, lost and confused
    by my own feelings.
Still the ugly little girl, unsure
    and insignificant.
A mother begging for the strength
    to be a better parent -
        a better parent than you were to me.

Originally written in February 2006.

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Monday, February 06, 2006

Poem - Untitled

A sad and aging figure, sighing softly
Sings a song never heard.
Mourning lost chances, lost loves,
    and loss for the sake of loss.
All of the wisdom and life experiences
    can not bring fulfillment.
Grey surrounds, the clouds hang heavy.
The wind feels like a thousand biting
    whips against hot, welting skin.

Originally written in January 2006.

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Thursday, February 02, 2006

Musings - Writing as Therapy

Lately it has occurred to me that many novice writers write to try to achieve fame. This motivation is all wrong. When I write, I write to get my feelings out. I tend to bottle things up inside, so the only logical way to ease the tension and prevent heart failure, is to write. As with any art form, writing is a creative outlet for those of us that have a certain level of dysfunction that seems to hold us back in our real life.

I know that right about now, you may feel personally offended. But this is not an attack on writers - this is a fact. When is the last time you have heard of a writer or painter that didn't have some quirk? Perhaps we don't all cut our own ears off, but we do have little ticks. Everyone does. But the creative ones, they have ticks and know it. Most non-creative types are not in tune with these imperfections in themselves, or are able to ignore them. I suppose this is a good thing. After all, "Ignorance is bliss." And so we write. We write to isolate ourselves from the idiots in our lives, to play out our most private emotions through our characters, and to just be ourselves.

These writers that write for profit are never going to achieve their goals. Not until they realize that their writing needs to come from within. Not be sifted through a sieve of mainstream consumerism. If you write for the average Joe, you will never achieve fulfillment, stand out from other writers of your genre, or even make a decent income. You will simply lose what is unique about you, and end up being one of those authors you never heard of, found in the bargain bin at the checkout.

Accept constructive criticism if it is valid, but do not let one editor that fails to realize your uniqueness is an asset, tell you your writing is no good. If Stephen King had given up, the world would have lost a unique, wonderful writer. Write for yourself, and don't quit your day job.
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